Miroku Noir
by Volpa
Summary: Is it my fault that I have poor hand-eye coordination? I thought a businesslike handshake would start us off on the right foot. 'I have two words for you,' she says in that low, smooth voice. 'Sexual Harassment.' AU, MirSan.


Miroku Noir  
  
by Volpa  
  
Disclaimer - I don't own the characters.  
  
Author's Note: I was thinking about those old movies and how fun it would be to write something in that style, with the cynical, slightly sleazy narrator and the troubled, mysterious woman with a past. Then, I sat down and this came out. It seems sort of ideal for Miroku and Sango. I'm not sure if I'll pursue this story, so do let me know what you think, ok? Thanks!  
  
Oh, and obviously, this is an AU.  
  
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I really love my job sometimes.  
  
Right now is one of those instances.  
  
The woman sitting on the other side of my desk is fanning herself with her hand, strands of hair clinging to her temples. She's meaningfully crossing and uncrossing her legs. Her eyelids lower as she smiles at me.  
  
I am about to hand her a file filled with photos. It could be argued that the shots are low on artistic merit. They are a little grainy, but that's beside the point.  
  
She's smiling.  
  
It's actually kind of sick. She knows that her husband is the star of the Technicolor pictorial series. He is with his secretary, in all manner of positions that are most assuredly not suggestive of dictation. Though, from what I heard through the microphone, he does a bit of dictating outside the boardroom if you know what I'm saying.  
  
Oh, now the lady is licking her lips and curving them slowly into a catlike grin as she accepts the photos, running her fingertips fleetingly over the inside of my wrist as she does so. She's probably thinking of the sweet, fat alimony checks she will be receiving in the near future, and the not so sweet, morbidly fat husband that she is soon to be free of.  
  
Now she's writing me a check for my services.  
  
Apparently, she already knew. She's already left him and just hired me to get the proof. Clicking her gold pen, she writes her hotel phone number on the check. She tells me that, if I want to discuss the case further, she's in suite 815.  
  
Like I said, this job has its perks.  
  
When I was a little kid, I watched one of those old noir mystery movies on TV. It was late, and the folks had gone out, so I was taking full advantage of the lack of bedtime enforcement. The babysitter had long since fallen asleep, and I wasn't one to listen to what my parents told me.  
  
I regret that a little now, but that night was a few months before all the bad shit went down. After that, I wished I had parents to order me around. I would have done anything they told me to. I made all sorts of deals. I would make my bed every morning. I would go to sleep at five in the evening. I would never bring food into the living room. I would read books instead of comics.  
  
I would have done anything.  
  
Things don't work that way, though. People don't come back from the dead because you start eating your vegetables and flossing. Instead, I got a pervy old uncle who got me a fake ID at the age of 14 so that I could make beer runs for him.  
  
Anyway, I can't blame my roving eye on my uncle's influence. Even back then, watching that flickering old movie in the dark of the living room, I decided that I'd found my calling.  
  
Mystery, I liked. Gunfights, I liked. Being a tough, gruff bachelor, I liked.  
  
Beautiful, mysterious girls in distress, I really, really liked. I believe that the thought that crossed my mind then could be summed up in one word: BOOBIES.  
  
Cut me a break; I was eight at the time.  
  
Speaking of boobies, the woman I've just helped to a couple hundred thousand of her husband's assets gets up and gives her own assets a pretty generous jiggle. Now, she's sauntering out the door of the office, glancing over her shoulder at me. Suite 815, she repeats, before the door swings shut behind her.  
  
This job tends to make a person a bit cynical. You may have guessed that already. I would say that three quarters of my workload involves catching cheating spouses in flagrante.  
  
Let me tell you, if I ever get wrangled into an engagement, there is no way in hell I'd consider it without a prenuptial agreement. I've seen enough to know that being a trusting person is a one-way flight to broke, brokenhearted Loserville.  
  
Loser Airlines doesn't even give you those cute little in-flight liquor bottles. You have to buy that shit yourself, with whatever lint and pocket- change you can retrieve from your ex-wife's couch before the movers carry it out the door, along with every other thing you ever owned.  
  
That includes your cufflinks, which she has no use for, but will take anyway because she's vindictive like that.  
  
Women can be treacherous, but oh how I love them anyway.  
  
Take the specimen that just walked in.  
  
She's got this air of intelligence and confidence about her. She knows exactly where she's going, and she's utterly gorgeous.  
  
She also has these great legs, unbelievable curves, and the most amazing ass I've ever, ever seen.  
  
I get up from behind the desk, push up my shirtsleeves, and walk out to greet her with my hand extended.  
  
"You're early," I say with a smile. "I wasn't expecting you for another ten minutes."  
  
She walks over to me, hair swaying to her waist. Every move she makes is like an in-depth study in how to drive a person insane.  
  
Is it my fault that I have poor hand/eye coordination? I was aiming for her hand, honest. I thought a nice, businesslike handshake would start this relationship off on the right foot.  
  
My hand gets a bit closer to her rear. Almost there, almost there, almost. . .  
  
"I have two words for you," she says in that low, smooth voice of hers as her dark eyes meet mine. She swivels her hips around, deftly avoiding my poor, lonely hand. That little swing in her walk almost makes me glad I didn't achieve my objective.  
  
On second thought, no.  
  
She brushes past me. Damn, but she smells good. It's not perfume either, it's a mix of whatever shampoo and soap she uses, and Sango.  
  
"Sexual harassment," she finishes lazily over her shoulder as she puts her briefcase on her desk. She sounds like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.  
  
Oh, the cruelty. Her eyes flick coolly up to mine as she sits down. She raises her travel coffee mug to her lips and crosses her legs, slowly rotating her ankle.  
  
I can't prevent myself from grinning.  
  
Oh my god, she's so self-assured that it drives me CRAZY.  
  
Allow me to introduce myself.  
  
I'm Miroku, a private investigator.  
  
I just got myself a new assistant. 


End file.
